Clean Slate

Chapter 60

Looks like an auto, Mac thought numbly, probably a semi, short-barrel, smaller caliber, not exactly a cannon. But deadly enough, as the Judge, lying behind him, was learning first hand. Its small black snout was averted from Mac, but the practiced way that she held it spoke volumes. "I wanted to talk to you first," Ruth went on.

Mac's mouth was dry. "Mind putting up the gun?"

"It's all right."

Behind him was the basement, and stairs leading up to. . .oh yeah. . . . His heart was pounding. "I'm not comfortable with you holding the gun there, Ruth."

"I wouldn't hurt you," she replied, and smiled. "I've always been so fond of you."

She stood in the center of the kitchen, beside the butcher block. She was squarely between Mac and the side entrance, and the hallway to the front door. Mac swallowed. "Did you call 9-1-1?"

"Oh," she said vaguely, "I was talking to Patsy Est about the Labor Day picnic. I'm on the board."

Not tracking, Mac thought. He felt like he had to force himself to breathe. Judge dying on the floor behind me, Ruth blocking the only exits, holding a weapon which, if Mac had the math right, still held four if not five live rounds. If there was ever a time for a silver tongue, this was it. Mac resisted the insane urge to laugh. Mom said sitting around talking is what I do best. Here's where we put that theory to the test.

He took as much of a breath as he could. "Why'd you do it?"

"He attacked me. He came in here yelling and he attacked me." Ruth's tone was mild as always, calm, but with just the slightest edge. She was trying to do something she was not accustomed to having to do: sell someone something. "I'm the injured one, Mac. I'm not seeing right. I hurt something. . .something awful. You've got to help me."

"Yes," he said, "yes, I'll help you. But first you need to put the gun away. Then we'll call and get some help in here."

She shook her head slightly. "You don't understand. I need you to back me up."

"Huh?"

"You were here," she said, tone instructional, as if his agreement was a foregone conclusion. "When Wayne came home. You saw him attack me. You witnessed the whole thing. How I was just defending myself."

Mac blinked. He felt frozen in place. His vision played funny tricks, wanting the gun to disappear, but there it stayed, in her hands.

Ruth's eyes seemed to well up. "Because I can't go to jail. Even for a minute. I can't be public. . .that way. The whole thing, all this, getting out – it'll wreck my life, Mac. If you back me up – you're so, you're. . .Wayne always said you're the most honest man he knows. With you backing me up, they'll know for sure I'm just a victim." She took a step toward him. Mac had the impression she'd have hugged him then if she could. "You can do this. I know you love me. And I love you too, Mac. We'll get through this, together."

On the tip of Mac's tongue was something about honesty, integrity, duty. Behind that was some sort of threadbare assurance to her that if she really were innocent, the system would prove that out. But then he thought, No, no. That won't do. Just go along, with whatever harebrained agreement she thinks she's making. Go along, nod your head, neutralize the gun.

"Sure," he said. "Okay. Works for me."

Her reaction was not what Mac expected. She just stared at him with those opaque eyes and did not move for a long, long moment. Then she smiled, not out of pleasure, but regret. "Oh, Mac. You are such a lousy liar."

Lips pressing, eyes squinting, her hands started to rise, but Mac did not wait around. Whirling, he grabbed the door and pulled it to, and leapt for the inner door to the upbound stairway, jamming his hand into his pocket for his cell phone. Instant all-hell exploded, wood chunks bursting around him as gunshots rang out in the kitchen: one-two-three-FOUR. Mac, hit, fell on the stairs, dazed, his head aching, but some animal survival instinct took over and he got his feet under him and kind of half-crawled, half-lunged up the stairs. God willing she was empty. God willing she had no fresh clips. God willing there's a decent cell signal out here. God willing he could escape the house from the second floor. Somehow.

The stairs paused at a landing. To the right was a closed door. Mac grabbed the handle and twisted. Nothing. It was seized up, or locked. Where the hell is my cell phone. Mac leaned on the door and pushed, then pushed harder. His head screamed with pain and he felt blood running down his neck. Can't be a bullet. From below came her voice: "Come back down here, Mac. There's no way out."

Sure.

Turning, Mac flung himself up the next flight of stairs. These were narrower, rising into darkness. Down below he heard a rustling sound, maybe a step or two, he wasn't sure. He reached the top, where the stair dead-ended into another closed door. Mac knew what this was. No way out from up here, as Ruth had said. But maybe now, if he could not talk her down, he'd have a fighting chance.

This door refused also to open. But now Mac, loaded with adrenaline and light on options, lunged against it once, twice, three times, and the door latch snapped, whipping the door open. Mac's momentum was such that he could not stop; as if hurled from a sling shot he careened into the brightly lighted room, smacked into the display case in the center, and went over with it, falling to the floor with a horrific crash of wood and glass and hardware.

He was on his back, dazed, banged and bruised, his thoughts not entirely his own. Still bleeding, and his head was on fire. Around him on the hardwood floor was shattered glass and pieces of display case and – just out of reach, pointed away – the Judge's prized .59 caliber 1860 Navy musket. Mac had never touched one before. It looked huge and evil. In the distance he heard sounds: Ruth's voice, and something vaguely wooden, like – maybe – footsteps on the stairs.

Stay loose. Don't think.

"Mac?" came Ruth's voice, faint and far below, sounding as though she were beckoning him for dinner. "Come on down. Let's talk this out."

Rolling onto his knees, he did not even feel the broken glass gouging his skin through his pants. In a window in his mind he saw pages, printed words, drawings. Vague, then focused. Quickly he took inventory. The cartridge pack lay beneath the cracked case. But there was no ramrod. Feverishly he looked around, then realized the ramrod lay beneath him.

Stay loose. Don't think.

Mac tore open the paper cartridge pack and stuck the caps and a handful of cartridges in his shirt pocket. Sliding over, and dragging the ramrod with him, he swivelled to face the door, grabbed the musket, and lay it on his lap. Damn, it was heavy. He could still see the pages. Steps spelled out. Stay loose don't think stayloosedon'tthink.

Footsteps now, the wood-creak of stairs. "You know," came her voice, "I can survive this, with you or without you. I'd rather do it with you."

"Go to the north window," Mac shouted, "and throw the gun out on the lawn, where I can see it. Then we'll talk."

No response, and Mac was not waiting. Fetching a cartridge from his pocket, he ripped the string to tear open the paper, then, holding the musket muzzle up, he poured the black powder inside. How old can this stuff be. Twenty percent of them were duds even back in the day! This was more history than he needed to know, just then. Stay loose,

God damn it,

DON'T think.

"I really don't want to hurt you," Ruth called, and Mac could tell she was closer, on the final flight, perhaps ascending the stairs more stealthily now.

"Then stay away," he called back. His thoughts flashed to the shiny new M9 lying unloaded and inert in his desk drawer at Fannie Annie. Man of principle – you fucking dumb ass. With sweaty hands he peeled the paper off the conical minie ball, dropped it through the muzzle, and then slammed the ramrod down the musket barrel, tamping for all he was worth. Dropping the ramrod, he hefted the musket barrel to point toward the door, and half-cocked the hammer. No old cap to replace.

Stay loose.

A stair creak, close.

Don't think.

He applied a fresh cap to the steel nipple, pulled the hammer fully back with a horrendously loud CLICK-CLICK, braced the musket stock against his shoulder, put finger to trigger, and raised the heavy barrel to draw down on the open door.

Dead silence now.

You only have one shot, he told himself. "Don't make me do this!" he screamed.

No answer. No sound. Maybe she's gone back. Then at the doorway appeared Ruth. Mac wanted her hands to be empty, but as she swung them up he knew better. In his awkward seated position, his aim was all wrong. And he fully expected the hammer to land with an impotent click.

But with a wallop to his shoulder and a mighty roar, the musket fired. Instantly the range ahead of him filled with viscous blue-black smoke and Mac's hearing completely went. He did not rest, he did not wait to see. Musket in one hand, ramrod in the other, he ass-scrabbled backward across the floor and around behind another display case, sure she'd emerge from the smoke like a winged, serpent-haired Fury and be upon him. In the smoky half-light, and as fast as he could, he reloaded the musket – quicker this time; practice makes perfect – listening for all he was worth with his numbed ears for sounds from the stairway.

Nothing.

Slowly, awkwardly, he rose to his feet, weapon loaded, cocked, at the ready. The smoke was drifting aimlessly in the air, slowly thinning. He could see that the doorway was empty. Ditto the landing outside. "Ruth?" he called. No answer. He edged toward the door, listening and staring as hard as he could. Hiding around the corner? The landing came into focus and it looked empty. But now the plaster wall opposite the door had a black hole in it the size of a saucer. Must have missed. He stepped closer, was almost to the door now, when he saw something on the floor. He squinted, unable to believe his eyes. Her pistol.

And now he could see that the hole in the wall had red and white bits of bloody tissue speckled around it.

At this point, checking in way late, total mindless terror fell fully upon him. He started to tremble and tremor so hard, he thought he would have to sit down. Standing rigid, he got himself under some sort of control. Silence continued to reign. Musket at the ready, he stepped out onto the landing and turned the corner to the stairs. That's where he found the first of the blood stains. More like a red rope, splashy zig-zags on the stairs. Descending carefully, he stepped around the bloodstains, and busted glasses – and then, presently, bits of hair, and teeth, and a couple of false fingernails, till, on the second floor landing, he found Ruth herself, or what was left of her, limbs akimbo, rag-doll dead. He could not bear to examine her or to look at her face. He had read what a three-quarter ounce minie ball from .59 could do. Without pause he continued downstairs for the ground floor. His eyes filled with tears – for what reason? Grief? Relief? The tremors came over him again, a milder case this time. He realized he was still, quite unconsciously, carrying the musket. He set it down at the ground floor landing next to the Judge, who was now as silent as his wife.

On the floor just inside the bullet-riddled door lay his cell phone. He picked it up. Like him, still alive. NEW VOICEMAIL. Can't come to the phone right now, he thought; I'm busy getting shot at. He was about to dial, when something caught his eye from the dark basement. That weird intermittent flashing of light. Mac edged past the Judge's body down a half dozen steps. There lay on its side a flat silver box, the size of a tablet computer, lid up. It was a DVD player, and it was still playing. Mac winced at the sight. Stepping on the lid, he pressed it shut and turned to go back up. But first, on reflection, he grabbed the player and carried it upstairs with him.

The kitchen, though empty, was amazingly normal: classical music, fan whirring, tocking of clocks. Mac strode for the side door and went out, flipping his cell phone open.

"Nine one one, what's your emergency?" came the voice.

"Excuse me just one second," Mac answered, and, cupping the phone in his palm, stepped over to the bushes to throw up. He coughed, cleared his throat, returned to the phone: "Still here," he said, and felt tears come to his eyes again: "Still here." Heading for his vehicle, he continued to talk. He opened the driver door, slid the DVD player under the captain's chair, closed the door, and, presently, snapped the phone shut to wait.